Dear T,

The red haired lady I despise for no reason—BEFORE me this week? What? Are kidding? I’m always the first client of the day at 5pm. I get to relish in pretending it makes me special, I love watching your car pull up, see you get settled, I’m secure in knowing all is right with the world now. Apparently you said it’s the schedule change for this week only. This is good. I was freaking out with now being sandwiched between women who are probably more interesting than me. But then the red haired lady then ran 10 minutes over (you gave me that time back and then a few minutes more), and you apologized for being late, that you had to make an important point. I glared at the door while waiting for you to be done, wishing that she will go away and find a new therapist, you’re mine mine mine mine. No, she doesn’t get to have important points made by you. You’re the first one who has ever, ever in my life heard the stories of my abused childhood. (You know this.) And I wanted to be irrationally mad over this lady, but I couldn’t, you’re too nice, too supportive. And tonight I was especially brave talking about a difficult subject from the past. (You said you’re proud I brought it up, that my feelings do matter.) So I’ve never brought up these feelings of jealously, but maybe one day I will. Can you see only male clients besides me? That would make me special. That’s a thing, right? Ok, I know you’re in your own private practice and need to make a living. I get it, we both work and have young families. But I’m special, right? This is a huge responsibility, being the bearer of these stories I’ve kept bottled up my whole life. I know you take these seriously, that you are to be trusted. But maybe don’t schedule this chick before me again, pretty please?

Till next week. I want it to be next Thursday already.